Much Ado About Murder

At least London ’s critics did not hurl anything more hazardous than a few well-turned epithets.

When the company had finally come home to London, they quickly discovered that things there were not much better. The playhouses were all closed down, in part because of plague, and in part because of rioting apprentices who had taken to roaming the streets of the city in large gangs and getting into violent, bloody battles with their rivals on the slightest provocation. There had been numerous complaints of damage done to property by these roving bands of hooligans, not to mention damage done to life and limb, as well. Smythe could not see what the players had to do with it. As he saw it, the blame lay with the guildsmen to whom these roaring boys had been apprenticed. They clearly failed to exercise the proper amount of supervision with their charges and allowed the boys too much free time. But rather than place the blame where it belonged, the authorities had apparently decided that any place where large numbers of citizens could gather was a potential breeding ground for violence, and so the playhouses had all been closed down ‘til further notice.

Smythe thought that it was terribly unfair to penalize the players by denying them the ability to make their living, even though they were entirely innocent of any wrongdoing… however, there was nothing they could do about it. Between their unsuccessful tour and the playhouses being closed, most of the Queen’s Men were now dead broke. They had lost several members who had left the company to pursue other work, and those with any money left would soon be penniless themselves from sharing the little they had with their less fortunate comrades. Even the meanest of them was not above standing a fellow to a meal or a drink. Adversity seemed to bring out the best in them, Smythe thought. The players took care of their own.

He recalled the way his father had railed against them when he first found out about his son’s dream of joining a company of players. “Players!“ Symington Smythe the elder had exclaimed, his voice dripping with scorn as he lifted his chin and gave an elaborate sniff of disdain. “Naught but a frivolous, immoral lot of dirty scoundrels, every last man jack of them! Degenerate and drunken wastrels, all of them, a foul and pestilential pox upon society! No son of mine shall ever be a player! Mark me well, boy, I shall strip the hide right off your back afore I allow you to disgrace the family name in such a manner!”

Well, Smythe thought wryly, as things turned out, his hide was still intact, which was certainly more than he could say for his father’s fortune or good name. The old fool had squandered all his money in his vainglorious attempts to gain a knighthood. Now he had little left to show for all his efforts save for his precious escutcheon, which he had bribed and cozened the College of Heralds into granting him, thinking that once he was a proper gentleman, a knighthood would soon be within his grasp. Alas, Symington Smythe II’s lofty ambition had overreached him and his dreams had fallen into dust. He had only narrowly avoided debtor’s prison and was now living mainly on his younger brother’s charity.

Meanwhile, Symington Smythe III took satisfaction in the knowledge that he was realizing his own dreams. He had left home for London, where he had found and joined a company of players, and though his current state of fortune was not much better than his father’s, at least he was living the life that he had chosen for himself. “Life,” as his Uncle Thomas used to say, “is much too short to be lived for someone else. Go and live it as you like it.”

Smythe often missed his Uncle Thomas, who had always been more of a father to him than his own father had been. Thomas Smythe had never begrudged his older brother his inheritance. He was a simple, unassuming man who lived his own life and was content to make his own way as a farrier and blacksmith in their small village. He had liked nothing better than standing at his forge, his powerful arms corded with muscle, his bare chest, covered only with his well-worn leather apron, glistening with a sheen of sweat as he labored at his favorite task, the careful crafting of a blade. Though he had shod more horses and forged more iron tools than weapons, Thomas Smythe could also forge a blade that could rival the finest fighting steel from Toledo. No less a connoisseur of weapons than Sir William Worley, master of the Sea Hawks and courtier to the queen, had admired his work.

And if it wasn’t for his uncle’s tutelage, Smythe knew all too well that he would have gone hungry on this night. He had been completely broke, but had lucidly managed to make some money earlier in the day by shoeing horses and helping out a local smith named Liam Bailey, who had found himself suddenly short-handed when his young apprentice became caught up in a street brawl and had his head busted for his trouble.